water's logic

Have you ever been convicted

of a crime?  If yes, please

explain:

in the space of one line,         

they only leave you

one line.

The logic of water sweeps up behind, as I go on a mission of order, brushing salt

from the tablecloth, coffee stains from the counter, taking

smiles from stranger’s mouths—hope they don’t

fall apart too quickly

or come to nothing, and stay—glad to find it—

for a while. Sort the voices from the neighbor’s yard

into piles I’ll comb through later—plans

for the wedding, stones to make the path,

and cinder blocks

around the butterfly plant, keep it from being trampled.

So the fog returns, gray for yellow

and a sharper green

enjoys being muffled, drinking slowly from the plummet of sky—clouds burrowing into soil, roots

seeping quietly, moist,

unflowing ‘til it reaches

leaf or bud. A bee pollinates water, mist grows back

as hollyhock and sunflower.

When you feel you must move something heavy

to keep on breathing,

just watch the islands remain surrounded by the sea, ever encroaching, yet the waves do not pull

as much as the sand

gives way.